


Start As You Mean to Go On

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: South Park
Genre: F/M, Fingering, Friendship, Gender Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-13
Updated: 2011-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:11:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clyde spent his high school years fooling around with guys. Now that he's met a girl he likes in college, he isn't sure what to do. Lucky for him, his good friend Bebe is there to point the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Start As You Mean to Go On

When Bebe and Clyde ended up at the same university, pretty much everyone from their high school graduating class thought they had gotten together, for real and at last. Even Bebe thought so but only for a second: the second between Clyde's drunken confession that she was his "special friend" and her own drunken epiphany that he wasn't speaking euphemistically—she occupied a special place in his heart, right next to but completely separate from his best friend, and nowhere near all the spaces reserved for fooling around and falling in love. She wasn't sure whether or not to be disappointed by that, until Clyde wrapped her up in a hug that made her feel like she'd won something. 

So when she sees him blushing and flirting with a girl at freshman orientation who is as impressively tall as he is, the dark locks she's alternately pushing back from her face and twisting around her finger as curvy as her figure, Bebe can't help grinning; and when she sees the two of them together in the cafeteria the next morning, she lets herself be called over by a couple of her new friends and sits with them instead.

"So," she says as she nudges herself into the open space between his door and doorframe when she goes over to his room that afternoon, "you and that girl last night. She's hot!" Flash of tongue as she grins at him, waggles her eyebrows, and he grins back as she joins him on the bed, wall at their backs. 

"Yeah," he says. He circles something in the course catalogue in his lap, folds down the page, closes it. No eyebrow-waggle, no tongue-flash, just _yeah_.

She elbows him. "What's up?"

"Nothing," he says. Says it like it's something but something he can't talk to her about. Which is ridiculous.

"Fuck you." She grins, toes his ankle. "Tell me." 

"It's nothing." He shrugs. "It's." He drops the course catalogue to the floor and runs his fingers through his hair. "It's just. Girls." His mouth quirks up on one side. 

"Girls? Or that girl?" 

"Well, that girl is a girl..." 

She blinks at him. "Clyde," she laughs in the next moment, "you sex machine—are you nervous about being with her?" 

"Well," he says, "it's easier with other guys. I know where everything is and how it works, and how to work it." His mouth curves in a fuller smile now. She knows about the guys he's messed around with—not their names or the intimate details, just that it happened. When a lot of their classmates assumed she and Clyde were making out in the host's bedroom at parties in high school, what they were really doing was hit-or-miss experimenting with liqueur/ice cream combinations and talking about the boys whose pants he just had his hand down. She's pretty sure Kenny was one of the boys on more than one occasion, maybe Butters too, and possibly one of the goth kids, who went from not knowing Clyde existed to subtly but pointedly ignoring him. Not Craig, though; never Craig, who lives next to her in Clyde's heart, kept safe in the "best friend" space. 

"Okay, well, the most important thing for you to know about is the clitoris." She starts to explain it to him, "bundle of nerves" and all that. 

"I know what it is!" he says. "I took Health and everything, and how many hours did I spend staring at my dad's magazines when I was a kid? So I mean, theoretically, I get it. But, um..." 

She follows him into trailed off silence. Then: "Oh!" She blushes. 

And then she says, "Well, okay, I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

He laughs with her and then realizes that while she's smiling, she's not actually laughing. Brow raised, he cocks his head at her. She meets his eyes steadily. "Really?" he says.

She grins through the furious blush that comes over her. "Yeah." As he gets up to close and lock the door, she lies down, taking the wall side of the twin bed, and lifts her hips as she takes off her jeans and panties, tossing them to the floor. 

When he turns from the door, Clyde pauses and looks at her, still in her shirt, bare legs slightly parted; parted enough. He looks there long enough that she says, "Pop quiz: what color is the handkerchief I'm holding?"

"I don't know." He drags his eyes up to her face and grins. "Let me call Wendy."

It's when he says stuff like this that she thinks he knew about her and Wendy, even though she never told him. But of course he's really referring to how he cheated off Wendy when they took the sexual addiction test back in 4th grade, only raising his hand "because the smartest kid in school did," as he'd confessed to Bebe in middle school. She's always liked how highly Clyde came to regard Wendy. She and Wendy even talked about maybe having a threesome with him once, but when they actually thought about it seriously it seemed kind of scary, and neither one of them brought it up again.

That he would mention Wendy now, even as a joke—Bebe feels her blush deepen. Clyde doesn't notice, though, or at least he doesn't say anything as he settles next to her, propped on his side. The bed is narrow and they're practically on top of each other but, with a little shifting around, they find a way to make it work. When they're settled, Bebe takes Clyde's hand and brings it down between her legs. She thinks she's going to have to tell him to ease up instead of shoving in, like certain boys she could name from their hometown, but he's gentle without her needing to say a word and she can't help wondering just where his finger has been before that it's learned such delicacy. 

"This is it," she says, getting him to press the pad of his finger just there, just so, her lips parting a heavier-than-air breath, her tongue darting after it, settling for the curve of her lower lip when the breath escapes.

His fingertip massages her in soft, tiny circles. "This?"

She nods, her hand clenches around his reflexively before loosening.

"Don't let go," he says, looking into her eyes, deeper than his fingertip is inside her. 

She closes her eyes and holds on. 

It's like the blind leading the blind, except she's been here before, many times, and she has perfect clarity here with her fingers. She guides him, helps him learn his way around, helps him get the feeling, until she's getting the feeling—it swells up and radiates out, the slow rush quickening in her bloodstream, flooding and filling her right down to her curled toes— _oh godfuck pleasethankyou_ —

As the feeling ebbs, she takes a deep breath and opens her eyes to meet his.

"Cool," he says.

Only their hands are touching now; their fingers shift and curl around each other, and they're lying there, looking at each other and holding hands. She's going to tease him about his response but, on second thought, it _is_ pretty cool. She grins back at him.

A gust of air pushes through the open window, disturbing the blinds, flickering the slatted sunlight. 

"I'm kind of really turned on right now."

"Good," she says, "because it's my turn now: your turn to show."

She's expecting him to blush, the way the girls from South Park claimed he always used to during Seven Minutes in Heaven, but he just says, "Okay, so—what do you want to see?" 

Since he didn't blush, she doesn't either as she looks him straight in the eye and says, "I want to feel your G-spot." His brow furrows and he blinks. "Your prostate," she says. "That's like a guy's G-spot, right?" 

"Yeah." His mouth wants to laugh but his eyes tell her it's not at her. "Sort of."

And then, because she's just looking at him, eyebrows raised, mouth curved into an expectant smile, he gets up and strips out of his jeans and briefs, tossing them on the floor with hers. She realizes she hasn't seen him naked since 5th grade. She isn't sure if she should tell him he has a pretty cock. He's probably heard it before from at least one of the boys he's played with; she hopes one of them had that much sense, anyhow.

He starts to get back on the bed but she props up on her side and says, "Take off your shirt, too." 

"My torso has nothing to do with my prostate, you know." This time the hidden laughter _is_ at her but not in a mean way.

She doesn't crack a smile. "Yeah, but I like your back. The curve of your spine. I want to see your skin moving over your bones." She doesn't tell him that when she masturbates in front of the mirror, she does it looking over her shoulder, watching her own spine, her own curves, the hint of a hand around her waist that might or might not be her own.

She's expecting a smartass remark but he surprises her again, taking off his shirt without a word and lying down beside her, naked. There's just enough room for him to turn onto his stomach. "Give me your fingers," he says. She reaches for his hand but he says, "No, here," mouth held open, flash of tongue.

So she gives him what he wants, lets him get her nice and wet. His eyes close and she watches his mouth on her, licking and sucking, his lips wrapped around her fingers, and she starts to slide them in and out of his mouth. Fingerblowjob, she thinks. She smiles at the thought, funny; at the sight, a different kind of smile. She smiles at what they're doing, at how it feels; smiles at how it's them, her and Clyde. She closes her eyes too and revels in the feel of him blowing her fingers, 'cause yeah, her fingers are her cock now, and she's gonna fuck him so nice... 

She lets him suck her, he lets her fuck his mouth, nice and wet, for a little longer. And then he turns his face to her so that her fingers slide, with a soft wet pop, from his mouth. 

"You ready for me now, babe?" she says. 

He returns the smile. "Yeah. It's better if you get between my legs." 

As he spreads his legs, she moves to kneel between them. He reaches back and takes her wet fingers, folds them slightly, not closed but curl-hooked open. "Like this," he says. "When you're inside me, curl like this and you'll be able to feel it." 

"What does it feel like?" 

"It's. You'll know. It's hard to miss. You'll feel it," he tells her. One corner of his mouth comes up a little more. "And so will I." 

As her lips curve up too she feels herself relax again; she didn't notice herself tensing up but he must have, and now he's got her relaxed again. And that, she can see, relaxes him. Which is as hot as it is cool.

He guides her in, lets go and encourages her to twist-slide up inside him. She curls her fingers like he told her, slides in a little more and oh _fuck_ , what is that—that has to be it, _has_ to be because Clyde convulses tight-hot around her, gasping, and she gasps too. 

"Is that it?" She nudges again: it gives to her touch, resilient, sort of springy; it's weird and nice and not what she thought. She doesn't know what she thought it would be but not this; she also didn't know she'd like it this much.

"Yeah." He gasps again. "Fuck yeah, that's it." 

She likes the way he sounds when he's breathing like that. She nudges once more. 

"Yeah, oh~ yeah, _yeah_ ; there." 

She likes how snug he gets around her. How he's so hot and tight. No wonder guys have an obsession with asses, she thinks. She nudges again, a little harder now, listens to his hot, sweet sighs and feels him hot and sweet around her, going taut for her with delicious tension. She watches his muscles tighten under his skin, his body shimmering with the deliciousness. 

She keeps nudging as she leans forward between his legs, leans over her fingercock up his ass, leans down and licks along his spine; and yeah, delicious, him and his skin and all his gorgeous quivering tension. 

" _Fuck~_ ", he moans. 

"You like this, babe?" she purrs. 

"Yeah." _Nudge ~ gasp ~ quiver._ "Yeah..." 

"But?" She knows there's more to it. "But what?" She tries coaxing his words with her soft purrs, coaxing his gasps and quivers with her pushing fingercock. 

"It's not the pressure," he says, "so much as the rhythm." 

"Ohh!" She thinks she gets but just to make sure: "You want it faster?" He nods and she quickens her nudging; then she dares to slip in deeper, fingercock rubbing and sliding across instead of bumping up against him. 

"Fuck, oh, oh~ _fuck_ , ahh~," he moans; moans again, louder and softer, incoherent against the pillow he is burying his face into. 

"No, baby." She reaches up and curls her fingers into the thick locks plastering themselves damply to his nape. Fisting his hair, she pulls him up, still slick-quick-sliding inside him. "Want to see you," she tells him. "Want to watch you, want to see your face when you come." 

Then, with practical curiosity: "Can you come from this? I mean, just from"— _nudge~rub~slide_ —"this?" 

"Uhn!" he gasps. She isn't sure whether that's incoherent yes or incoherent no. She does it again, more, and he sucks in his breath, finding articulation in the wake of his deep exhale. "No. I mean, maybe, I don't know; I never have." 

There's no time to dwell on the other boys who have had their fingercocks inside Clyde. Bebe may have spent the best part of high school with Wendy but she knows a thing or two about boys. "You need your cock touched too?" 

"Yeah," he moans. Almost incoherent but she got that one. 

"Come on," she says, fingers still inside him. "Up." He shifts, stops when he's up on his knees so she can reach around for his cock. "No," she says. "Up. All the way up." He looks over his shoulder at her, flushed and quizzical. "Come on," she says again. She stops moving her fingers but doesn't withdraw them. "Come on, baby; I want to give you what you want and I want you to give me what I want, and I know how to do it." 

Their grins reflect each other.

She backs off the bed carefully, one hand inside him, the other on his hip to help him. When they're on their feet, she uses the hand on his hip to steer him over to the sink, stands them in front of the mirror over it. 

"I know there's a longer mirror inside the closet door," she says. "But I thought you might want something to hold onto when I bend you over." 

Relinquishing his hip, she touches his nape. Her hand trails down from his slick-curled hair, caressing his back, lingering over his spine, kissing it with her fingertips on her way down to his cleft. Down she goes; her hands don't quite meet each other before she's traipsing up his back again. She stops between his shoulder blades, flattens her palm to his skin and urges him forward. She moves with him when he shifts to bend himself, grasping the edge of the counter with both hands. 

She looks at his face in the mirror; their eyes meet. Gazes locked, she reaches for one of his hands, curls her fingers over his, entwines and brings him away from the edge; bringing his hand to his cock, she curls their fingers around the base and strokes him, base to tip, with both their hands. Strokes down, and up, and down; and on the next upstroke, she undoes her fingers from his, closes her fist over his head and slides free with a sweet squeeze as he keeps stroking. 

And she's stroking too—not his cock but inside him. She straightens herself, watches over his shoulder, his fingers on his cock; she finds his rhythm in the mirror, strokes it into him with her fingercock, deep-quick-slide~twisting. 

When they're fucking to his rhythm, she finds his face again. Watches him come, contorting, distorting, so fucking beautiful in all the displacement of normalcy. 

He rests against the edge and she rests against him. Then she slides out of him, her fingers no longer her cock, just part of her hand again. 

Their eyes in the mirror have not come off each other yet. Their gazes stay entwined until he turns his face away from the mirror, his body following; away to her, and now they're looking at each other directly. 

"Cool," she says.

He flashes a grin. "Awesome." He puts his hand on the sink as he leans back against it. "Maybe," he says with another smile, not as flashy this time; a little quieter, a little deeper: "Maybe I like fooling around with girls, after all." 

Yeah, despite what people think, Bebe isn't Clyde's girlfriend and she isn't his best friend. She's his "special friend," whatever that means—and that's just how they like it.


End file.
